


Festival

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Abduction, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Arguing, Attempted Murder, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Cussing, Exsanguination, Festivals, Forests, Gore, Horror, Knives, Mocking, Murder, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overdosing, Scents & Smells, Stabbing, Strangulation, Tension, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: Corey is confident indulging in his fatal tastes until another man threatens to steal from his plate.TW: serial killer pov, necrophilia, high-strung characters, conflicting work philosophies.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	Festival

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Masters of Horror installment Pick Me Up.
> 
> There's no tag for sucking cum out of a wound, but that happens. Sorry, mom.

The music had been playing for two days without stopping. Between sets, the speakers at each stage played pre-recorded tracks. With three stages, the sawing of guitars never faded.

Seasoned fans wore earplugs and kept muffs and headphones to wear overnight. They brought pool mattresses and pillows, hung curtains over their car windows. They packed food and Pepto. They were comfortable.

But only because they'd spent time as the other half of the festival crowd, enthusiastic and unprepared. Those were the tired ones, yelling into their phones, running out of socks and cash. They were so young. So passionate. So soft.

"So what?" Corey asked, annoyed at having his people-watching interrupted. "It doesn't matter which spot he gets. They're all the same. We're already leveled and hooked up."

"I understand that, sir, but I had to ask."

The coordinator's assistant hesitated, as if hoping he would change his mind. He didn't. The young man muttered a thank you and turned to leave.

"Hey." Corey's voice had softened. "If he gives you shit, tell him to be a man and come talk to me. No excuse for abusing the staff."

The assistant smiled, thanked him again, and left. Corey tried to go back to watching the fans milling around with corndogs and beer, running to catch the next show. Just as he hit his stride, quick, heavy footsteps interrupted again.

"I said no," he groaned, turning.

"I thought I'd ask again… nicely…"

Manson's unpainted lips turned up in a way that made it clear he was squinting behind his sunglasses. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe he should've traded his overpriced suit for a t-shirt. Still, Corey didn't want to burn a bridge that hadn't been built yet.

"Yeah, well… I'm sorry, but our bus isn't moving. We've been there since Thursday. But don't worry. There's plenty of space."

Manson smirked. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. Corey couldn't tell if his restraint was supposed to be dignified or catty. Either way, the taller man conceded. He left the performers' tent, a clean scent lingering behind.

"That won't last," Corey muttered to himself.

There weren't enough baby wipes in the world to keep the sweat away. The bus showers wouldn't be enough. The smell would find him eventually.

//

"I love it," he purred, nuzzling the girl's ear. "The sun and the bodies get more intense every day. It draws the stench out…"

"The stench?" She pulled back, incredulous. "Are you telling me I stink?"

His thick fingers curled around her shoulder, slipping the strap of her bra down. Despite not knowing whether she'd been insulted, she let him. His lips met a drip of moisture on her throat.

"We're all rotting," Corey breathed. "We call it life, but it's just a slow decay."

He nipped at her skin and she gasped, then giggled. It was too good to be true. He guided her to lay back on the blanket he'd brought. Despite being so close to the festival grounds, the woods seemed peaceful.

"I love you," she sighed.

"I know."

He gave another bite, harder, and her moan gave them both a sense of urgency. They stripped quickly, sticking to one another in the dark. The blanket wrinkled and bunched. They kicked it away and forgot it.

Corey lifted and rolled her, finding her pierced nipples, navel, the small of her back. Each new patch of skin built his excitement. He licked every available inch. She rewarded him with more, dripping over his face and hands.

Her body hair was thick and dark. It was a fascinating texture, rare among young women. He tugged too hard at her armpit. She squealed. 

Finally, he felt his cock hardening under her fingers. He'd enjoyed the juice of her that she'd been willing to share. It was time to access the rest of it. He growled, flipping her roughly onto her stomach.

"Corey!" she yelped, flailing. "There's something sharp!"

He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and shoved. Her face hit the ground and her voice stopped for a moment. With his other hand, he groped beneath her until he found a new kind of wet.

Whatever had cut her hadn't gone deep, but there was blood. He swiped it over his lips and went back for more. There wasn't enough. He dug at the cut and her voice came back, a proper scream. He slammed her face back into the leaves and dirt.

She coughed and moaned. Her body wasn't limp, but she was trying. He appreciated it. Her stillness let him reach for his jeans and the knife rolled into the cuff.

It slid into her inguinal fold so easily and the blood began. She gasped loudly, but didn't really fight him as he rolled her over. Her cheekbone was bloody. She reached up to it with one hand while the other weakly pulled her thighs together.

"Shhhhhhh," he soothed, stroking her throat and breasts. "Deep breaths."

Within seconds, she was unconscious. Corey pushed her legs wide and quickly settled between them. His tongue found the wound and wormed its way inside. She gushed like a lava cake. He took a mouthful of blood and pushed it out, over his chin.

It was delightful, like eating her out, but more. She was sickly sweet, metallic. He moaned into her groin, spraying red over her hip. The pulse of blood over his tongue quickly became weaker. He dug his fingers into her thigh, a bit disappointed that it wouldn't bruise properly.

The flies knew. They felt the breeze of her leaving. Corey welcomed them landing on his sticky face. They could enjoy her together.

He crawled over her, his cock dragging over her skin. Her eyes were open. He licked them, sliding the tip of his tongue under the lids. Her mouth was slack. He dipped his thumb in and held her like a fish.

The other hand brought the knife up and opened her. He cut a pocket above her pubic bone, just large enough to fit his cock. There wasn't enough lubrication, but that didn't matter. Once he was inside, Corey rocked back and forth, tiny motions that affected the pressure of her flesh around him.

"So beautiful," he moaned. "Beautiful… Rotting..."

Corey bit her cheek as he came, tearing it away from her skull. He lay on her body for several minutes. His hips didn't stop moving. The overstimulation was painful. He whimpered pathetically and drooled over her exposed teeth. When he started to cry, he stopped.

Slicing into her abdomen had let a new kind of smell free, the sourness of roadkill on hot pavement. It overpowered the blood. He bent low to suck his cum from the hole and gagged. Still, he had to finish. To do less would be an insult to her.

He managed to keep it in until he got back to the festival grounds. A kind of outdoor shower had been set up behind the Motionless van. They were so prissy. He made it to the curtained stall before puking down the front of his shirt.

The cold water made him feel light-headed. It was nice. He scrubbed the dirt from under his fingernails, the flaking blood from his chest hair. He rinsed his clothes and squeezed them out, then opened the curtain.

"Rough night?"

Manson hadn't been there when he went in. He would've noticed. But he was there now, leaning against the van on the other side. He blew a cloud of sweet vanilla vapor and stepped forward.

"I'm fine," Corey muttered.

"Do you need someone to walk you to your bus?"

"I'm fine."

He shoved his shoes into the crook of his elbow and started to walk away. His bare feet stuttered on the gravel of the parking area. Under the buzz of the early morning jam session at Stage B, he heard a throaty voice call after him.

"Liquor first next time, kid."

//

The knock came again, but louder. Groaning, Corey pulled a t-shirt on and staggered to the door. The rest of the band had honored his request for privacy. They knew what his "hangovers" were like. He was tired and sick and just wanted to sleep with her ghost for a while.

"What the fuck do you want?!" he asked loudly, whipping the door open.

Manson looked almost hurt. His merlot lips made a shape like a heart, browless eyes wide. He splayed a hand over his chest.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me," he said gently. "You forgot something in the shower last night."

Corey's brain went white hot. What could he have forgotten? He had his knife, cleaned and tucked into his pillowcase. He had all of his clothes. He must have had a panicked expression because Manson seemed amused.

"Don't worry, I didn't tell anyone you used it. Chris is such a princess, he might have a breakdown if someone had been in it. Well… someone like you…"

He held out his fist, palm down, and Corey put his hand underneath. He caught something small and light. Anxious, he closed his hand without looking.

"You should be more careful," Manson smirked. "I got a show in a minute, Stage C."

He walked away, boots crunching the gravel underfoot. Corey closed the door and locked it. In the safety of the van, he opened his hand.

They were silver nipple rings, 14 gauge. The balls were dirty. One had a bit of blood caked in the seam. They were hers.

He hadn't taken them out. He'd left them with her body, staked out in the woods for the insects. He wasn't the trophy type. How…?

The realization hit the pit of his stomach. He paced the length of the bus a few times, trying to decide what to do with them. He stuffed them into his pocket and grabbed his shoes.

"If he was gonna, he would've," he muttered, locking the door behind himself.

Whatever Manson's plan was, he needed to keep an eye on him. Stage C was already flooded with fans, ready to scream along with their favorite songs. He'd forgotten his stage ID, but one of the security staff recognized him.

Manson was checking his face in a hand mirror before stepping out. Of course he was. When he turned to hand the mirror off to an assistant, he made clear eye contact. His face was expressionless.

He winked.

Corey waited, seething. Every costume change - and there were far too many - was agony. He wanted it to end. It was a good thing that he'd left his knife in the bus. He might've lost control.

The final riff, fading into the screams of the crowd, cleared that red fog just enough. Manson looked tired, but satisfied. It was almost like a post-fuck glow. For a moment, Corey wondered if he looked like that after.

"Enjoy the show?" Manson panted, wiping his face with a black towel. "I didn't peg you for a backstage type. Figured you'd be out front."

He came closer. It was too close. But Corey didn't want to back up. He didn't want to do anything that could be interpreted as weakness. He needed to control the situation, or at least to look like he did.

"You look tense."

He walked away, dragging a line of attendants. It was bewildering. He was a mirror, giving no clues about his own intentions. 

Corey returned to the bus, feeling dazed. He could only think of one reason for Manson to keep what he saw to himself. The thought of it could've been exciting. Instead, he felt violated.

They had never played together. He barely knew anything about Manson. He was a tour musician, always on the road. It wouldn't be hard to indulge in… similar appetites… without being noticed.

Corey dove into his laptop, bringing up tour dates, cities, missing persons, bodies. Maybe he was reaching, but he was sure he saw it. A pattern. The more he looked, the more threatened he felt.

Slipknot hit the festival circuits hard. They were his hunting grounds. He didn't want another predator stalking them. He didn't want to share. He didn't want to be seen.

Discomfort bloomed into anger. What right did he have to invade another man's territory? He wasn't built to hunt festivals, anyway, with his shined shoes and clean fingernails. And all of the points on Corey's research were ligature strangulations, a cowardly way to end someone. He didn't deserve to be there.

That anger must have been written on his face. The rest of the band kept their distance. They got on stage and gave the hardest, most vitriolic performance in recent memory. After a quick cleanup, he stomped down the hill.

Her memory was still raw and bleeding in his brain. Being so close to the crowd, smelling them, was too much. He just wanted to crawl under something and go to sleep. But he couldn't. He needed to protect his range.

He found Manson talking to an older woman in a Slipknot shirt. The fact that she was marked for him was enraging. He wanted to piss on trees and snarl until Manson backed down. He did the next best thing.

"You poaching my fans now?"

"Poaching implies I'm not wanted," Manson replied, not bothering to look up.

The woman's eyes went wide. She looked like she might start vibrating from sheer excitement. Corey smiled broadly. He held his arms open and she ran into them.

She began to babble about how much the music meant to her. Normally, he would've swallowed every word as fuel for the next album. But he was too full of the girl he'd left in the woods and hatred for Manson's smug, painted face.

"Well, I just couldn't let you catch something from this guy," he said when she stopped talking. "STDs… Fleas..."

"Fleas? I'm afraid that's the forte of the actual animals around here. I'm just paid to act like one."

"We're all animals. Some of us just like to pretend we aren't."

"Nothing wrong with a little civility," Manson scoffed, slipping his hand into the fan's. "Isn't that right, Kristen?"

"It's less civility and more just an excuse to lie. You don't like liars, do you, Kristen?"

When she said she didn't, her discomfort was clear in her voice. The men weren't looking at her. She was a prop for their conversation. She pulled back from Corey, who let her go. Manson gripped her hand harder and pulled her in.

"Your place or mine?" he purred into her blonde hair, loud enough to be heard.

"I think I'm just gonna take a nap, actually," she chuckled nervously. "It's pretty late."

"I'll walk you."

She started to protest but Manson clicked his tongue. He softened and looked into her eyes. Corey could see her relax.

"Please. It's the least I can do. It's my fault you're still out. Just to the camping area, so I know you're ok."

She nodded and turned back to Corey to wish him a good night. He repeated it, but his mind had already left to find a route through the adjacent woods. He needed to stay abreast of them, but far enough away that he wouldn't be seen.

By the time they reached the camping area, they were holding hands. Her shoulders were slightly raised, chin down. Corey couldn't see the flush on her face, but he could feel the heat of it. They walked past the thru-traffic barriers and just kept going, into the trees.

He hung back, tried to keep a good amount of brush between them. He could make out Manson's pale fingers, see the dark smear of his lips against his face. Kristen was turned away from him. He could see the nonagram printed on the back of her shirt. The ink caught the glow from the festival grounds.

"Is it very far?" 

Her voice carried, but he strained to hear the soft reply. Something about an overlook that he knew didn't exist. Timing his footsteps with theirs, he stayed with them, moving just a little closer.

"The path gets narrow here," Manson said slowly, as though trying to decide how to deal with it. "Do you wanna go first, or follow me?"

"Oh. Uh…"

"If you wanna go first, it's just a few yards till it opens back up."

"Ok," she said, laughing a little. She was probably convincing herself that her nervousness was silly.

A few steps in, Manson reached into his pocket. He wound something dark around his hands. Corey ground his teeth. The wrapped hands rose and fell and pulled tight.

Kristen's feet tried to keep moving before they realized that the strap was around her neck. That wasn't good. She lost traction and slid down his front. He bent down to let her hit the ground.

At least he wasn't going to snap her neck. At least they'd have time together, even if it was just the five minutes it took for her heart to stop. It wasn't the amount of care she deserved, but it was more than Corey expected.

She swung her fist upward. It connected with Manson's face, loudly, and he almost fell over. He hadn't been expecting it. He probably chose her for her perceived weakness, an older animal, an easier kill. Corey stifled a laugh and watched her shove and twist until she was free.

She took off, stumbling through the underbrush. Corey headed in the same direction, looping wide. He wasn't familiar with the terrain, but neither was she… and she was frightened and oxygen-deprived. It wasn't difficult to get out in front of her.

She came around a tree and slammed into his chest. Corey spun her around, cradling her body, letting her momentum dissipate. Kristen gaped at him, then started to whimper and began a broken explanation. 

"Hey," Corey soothed. "Hey. Listen. It's alright. Shh… Come on. It's ok. I got you."

"He's coming," she sobbed, pulling at his arms. "We gotta go."

"Wait just a minute."

"What? Why?! He's coming!"

"That's why we're waiting."

The brush rustled and Corey took her by the wrist. They turned to face Manson. His hair fell over his forehead, damp with sweat. His lip and nose were bleeding. 

"Took you long enough," Corey smirked. "Did you run back to your bus for more lip gloss? She would've gotten away if I hadn't been here."

"I'll send you a thank you card. Now give her back."

"No!" she yelled, huddling closer to Corey. "He's trying to kill me! Please…"

"What do you think he's gonna do?" Manson laughed, gesturing toward them. "Drop you off at your car with a peck on the cheek?"

Kristen let go and tried to back up. Corey held her wrist tightly. As she looked from him to Manson, the reality of her situation began to set in. Shaking, she stood still as if compliance would earn her freedom.

"Go back to your bus, Manson. I'll take it from here."

"At least let me say goodbye." He approached slowly and hooked a finger under her chin. "You know what he's gonna do to you? He's gonna bleed you dry. Slowly. Every drop. It's gonna hurt so much. Is that what you want?"

She shook her head. Corey pulled her back possessively. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders and held her back against his chest. He could smell her hair: dry shampoo and dead leaves.

"I won't choke you from behind like a fucking coward," he said, just loud enough for the interloper to hear. "I appreciate you. The dark of you. The wet. I'll honor you the way you deserve."

"By 'honor,' he means he'll cut you open and fuck the meat. He's a monster, Kristen. An animal. Wouldn't you rather go out soft? You'd just fall asleep."

The way she leaned back seemed like she was going to faint. Corey took it as an opportunity to retrieve the knife from his pocket. It slid open and clicked. She shuddered.

Manson's expression flattened. He looked cold. Corey teased the side of Kristen's throat with his blade. The movement attracted that plastic, mis-matched eye.

"We could share her." His tone implied that he was agreeing to something he'd been asked for.

"Share?" Corey snorted a laugh. "Share… with a monster? An animal?"

"Someone told me recently that we're all animals. Maybe we're a cooperative species. We could both have her. I'd even let you play after."

"You could let me go," she interrupted. "I won't say anything. I'll leave. I'll go home. Now. Tonight."

Corey rubbed his cheek against her hair while she continued to beg. Turning her loose had never been an option. But Manson's proposal was something to consider. If they both had their hands on her, neither could betray the other. Still, he had to assume it was a trick.

"Give me your cord."

"What?"

"Your ligature. Give it to me. I'll give you the knife. I use it to hold her, you cut her."

"No, no, no. You hold her like that. I'll take her, then you make a mess. You dump a load, my suit stays clean, everybody's happy."

"Not a chance."

Manson stepped even closer. She was sandwiched between them, pleading. They weren't listening, staring into each other's eyes.

"Pass her to me, then. Like a little penguin egg. I'll choke her. You cut."

"Your shoes will get wet."

"They'll shine back up."

Corey could taste his breath. Not enough bourbon to dull his wits, not enough toothpaste to cover it up. The allure of the gentleman ghoul was suddenly clear. He pushed her into Manson's chest. 

It was only a few inches, but it was enough for Kristen to swing her leg. Her knee hit Manson's groin, hard. Corey reached for her, tore out a handful of blonde hair. She stomped on his foot and pushed off, running in the direction of the tour busses.

"Fucking go!" Manson groaned, hitting his knees. "Get the little bitch!"

Corey took a few excruciating steps.

"I think she broke my goddamn foot."

"For fuck's sake!" 

Manson struggled to his feet and staggered after her. Corey kept at it, grunting with every step. He was slow, but he couldn't afford to stop.

It felt like an eternity, but he finally saw the light of the graveled clearing. He limped toward the closest van. Manson stalked between the vehicles, squatting to look under them.

It was too late. She was gone. Everything he had, everything he was, would be gone by morning.

"Whoa. You ok?"

The screened door of the Motionless trailer swung open and Chris emerged. He jogged the few steps to Corey, who must have been pale. He felt nauseous.

"Fuck!" Manson growled, coming around the corner.

"Hey, did you guys get in a fight? What's going on?" Chris held his hands out as if to keep them separate. "You need the site doctor?"

"We're fine," Corey insisted. "Just… help me to my trailer."

"Too far. Come to mine."

Manson stopped down and let Corey have his shoulder. Chris took the other side. Together, they walked him to the nondescript brown RV. It was an ordeal to get him up the steps.

"I'm sure it's just twisted," Corey said, flopping onto the black leather couch. "Just give me a minute."

"We don't have a minute," Manson mumbled from behind his hands.

"Listen, guys," Chris said, standing next to Manson by the door. "I know tensions are high, but you can't just throw hands. Violence doesn't solve anything."

"Fuck off, you vegan cunt," Corey hissed through gritted teeth.

Manson laughed boyishly. At least he was amused. Chris just sighed.

"I mean it. No fighting. And be more careful where you get your drugs. You never know what it's cut with."

Manson yelped and jumped away from the door. He blinked hard and swayed. Corey caught a glimpse of a syringe in Chris's hand. Manson mumbled something while the younger man guided him to the couch.

Chris took a moment to pull a few more needles and some vials from his pockets, scattering them. It was a wonder they fit in jeans that tight. Corey scooted down the couch. Even if he got out the door, where could be go?

"It's ok," Chris said gently, rolling Manson's sleeve up. "It's pretty common to end a fight like this. Get high, let off some steam. Tragic that you can't trust people anymore."

He used the needle to make several punctures on Manson's forearm, then injected a bit more of whatever was inside. Manson shook, then went still. Chris filled another syringe and offered it to Corey.

"Why?"

"I know, Corey. I've known since the girl at Louder than Life. You know it was always going to end this way. Does it matter if it's here instead of strapped to a table by a warden? At least, this way, it's painless."

Corey slowly rolled his sleeve up. Chris's long fingers wrapped around his arm, tight enough to bruise, and tapped out a vein. It felt like giving blood. He leaned back, his muscles contracting rhythmically. Dying smelled like bile and leather, fading into the distance.

//

Ricky looked up from the cutting board when he walked back in. His smile was adorable. Chris stole a piece of bell pepper on his way to the bathroom. The light was on.

Kristen lay in the tiny bathtub, wrists and ankles zip-tied together. She moaned, bubbling against the wet washcloth stuffed in her cheeks. Chris sat on the edge of the tub and brushed her bloody hair out of her face.

"It's ok," he soothed. "Calm down. You're only restrained to keep you from hurting yourself. You punched Ricky pretty good."

He waited for her to quiet. His smile was somehow comforting. He seemed so normal.

"There, now. See? That's better. We would never hurt you, Kristen," he said, reaching for an insulin kit on the sink. "We only eat cruelty-free."


End file.
